


Gregory Lestrade's Perfect Date (Now Complete with Gunfire)

by Freebirdflying



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Assassination Attempt(s), Awkward awakenings, BAMF Greg Lestrade, British Museum, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft loves history, Night at the Museum - Freeform, Protective Greg, is this a date?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-28 08:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15044699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebirdflying/pseuds/Freebirdflying
Summary: Mycroft and Greg have slowly become close friends over the course of many meetings over coffee or dinner to discuss Sherlock.  Mycroft assumed this evening would be like many others: enjoy the man's company over tea, don't make things awkward by mentioning how attractive he found him, go home afterwards and focus on work to avoid pining.  Surviving sniper fire and running for their lives turned out to have much more interesting results.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ngaijuuyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ngaijuuyan/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Ngaijuuyan! I hope you enjoy this gift, and that you have had a great day for your birthday!  
> 生日快樂! 祝你在这特别的日子里快乐幸福。

The proprietor of Tea and Tattle on Great Russell Street had just given them the second of the series of pointed glances such as all restaurant employees learn to direct at customers who show no signs of calling for their bill and looking about for scarves and gloves ten minutes before closing. Mycroft, of course, saw and correctly interpreted the glance, but carefully avoided meeting the man’s eye. He’d leave a tip when he paid that would ensure no hard feelings if they lingered until the last moment. 

“...and then she brought out one of those magazines, you know, women’s mags, with all the celebrity gossip and sadistic advice about how to ‘improve’ a blow job that sound like they’d end with someone in hospital. Well, hers probably didn’t have that; I think it some teenage version. I hope.”

“You seem to be quite well versed in women’s literature.” Greg just rolled his eyes and laughed.

“Yeah, I was married, remember? I lived with at least one of the genre in the loo next to my _Four Four Two_ for ten years. And sometimes I’d already read everything in the football one.”

Mycroft just smirked, his expression taking the piss better than most people could with a thousand words. 

“Oi, none of that. I’ll bet _you_ don’t know the proper occasions to wear glitter eyeshadow.”

“I have retained Anthea for counsel on all such subjects, should the need arise.” 

Greg just snorted, and jumped back into his story from his niece’s recent weekend visit (thirteen; old enough to resent a childminder, but too young to be left at home by herself for a whole weekend--Greg’s sister had hinted that he invite Lucy for a visit that would conveniently happen to be the exact weekend Beth and her husband wanted to celebrate their anniversary in the Cotswolds). “So, yeah, she had this magazine, and she’d already explained to me why some teenager with big hair and a really frightening amount of glitter on her face was going to be the next Celine Dion, so, I was only half way paying attention when she asked if I’d take a quiz, and I must have accidentally moved my head in a way that looked like nodding, because next thing I know I’m being asked all sorts of questions about my romantic preferences.” 

He paused to drain his cup of the last of his tea. Mycroft watched him while eating the last of his scone with damson plum jam. He and Greg had met ostensibly to discuss Sherlock and the details of his long-term relationship with risky behavior, as they had on a fairly regular basis over the years, but as was becoming more and more common now that Greg didn’t have a wife to rush home to and Mycroft had gained enough power to tell those who would bother him after hours for anything less than a dire emergency where to stuff it, the conversation had glossed over Sherlock and wandered off into other topics. 

Such as Greg’s results from the “What’s Your Ideal Date” quiz. 

“Honestly, the questions....tell me, would my friends describe me as ‘spunky and independent’ or ‘romantic and earnest’? I figured ‘sweet and shy’ was right out.” 

“Hmm...I can’t say that any of those are the words that I would use if I were called upon to describe you.” _I would call you...honest, thoughtful, patient, loyal...I do believe you have the capacity to be romantic, although I’ve never had the opportunity to see or experience your efforts in that area._ Mycroft rarely admitted, even to himself, that he might quite like romantic overtures from this man.

“Oh, so I have to officially ‘call upon’ you for you to give me our opinion?” Greg teased, with that looked he always gave Mycroft when he was being very posh and stuffy. He didn’t wait for an answer, but rambled on. “Then there was some rubbish about what I would notice first about the new boy next door and which American city I felt best represented my approach to life--how should I know? I’ve only been to New York.” 

As he paused for breath, Mycroft indicated to the waiter that he was finally prepared to accept their bill, much to the relief of the proprietor, who casually glanced at the clock that indicated closing time was in four minutes. 

“And did you learn anything from this foray into self-awareness?” 

“Well, apparently, my ideal date is wandering about a museum or art gallery opening. Dunno how I got that; I was expecting something involving food or sport. Then again, I suppose it wasn’t really designed with men in their forties in mind.” 

“Certainly. I believe the proprietor will be straining his eyes if he stares at us and then back to the clock any harder, so I believe we should prepare to take our leave.” 

“Oh, yeah, wow. I didn’t realize it was so late. Time gets away somehow.” Greg popped a last bite of cake into his mouth and stood, turning to remove his coat from the back of the chair as he continued chattering. He’d never been such a talker, but now that he lived alone it seemed what few friends he made the time to meet up with usually got an earful. “And then as if that wasn’t bad enough, there was a _second_ quiz, and _this_ one was about whether I was a good kisser or not. I had to refuse that one; not something I want to discuss with my niece! _Then_ it turns out she _has a whole magazine just of quizzes._ I suggested movie night start early, but she…” 

Mycroft’s back was to the door. He was reaching for his wallet in the pocket of the coat draped over his arm when it all went to hell. 

Crashing.

Glass breaking.

Screaming. The busboy. The lady digging through her handbag for her keys by the door. Both. 

Shouting. The waiter.

Shoving. 

Chair hitting the ground.

Falling.

Pain.

Ears ringing.

Pain. 

Dizzy.

Gregory?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tea and Tattle is a real place, across the street from the British Museum. Procrastination by way of Google Maps strikes again. I even read their menu and closing time is 6:30 pm, in case you were wondering (you weren’t). I’ve not been there myself, so please excuse any inaccuracies, and if an employee ever happens to read this, sorry for the mess.
> 
> I googled football magazines and came up with Four Four Two. Apparently it’s a thing.   
> So, I was making up the quiz, remember such things in Seventeen magazine (which is primarily read by thirteen-year-olds who wish they were seventeen, I believe) from my teenage years. I’m old enough that we bought the actual physical magazines; I didn’t have the internet at home yet! I googled “What’s Your Ideal First Date” quiz just to get some ideas, and...it actually exists. https://www.seventeen.com/love/love-quizzes/a27325/perfect-date-quiz/
> 
> I got “go to a restaurant.” Um, why didn’t I think of that? Eye roll. I don’t even know if “going to a museum” was a possible result; I am the worst procrastinator but even I wasn’t going to go through giving different answers to find out.
> 
> Oh, and I actually did have a magazine of all quizzes (!!!), and it was my favourite. I now feel the urge to call my high school best friend and ask nosy questions about her romantic predilections, so long as they fit into neat five-words-or-less-summaries. Although I could probably extrapolate quite a lot from the fact that she met her now-spouse playing World of Warcraft.
> 
> Hmm...like Greg, I live alone (happily, but sometimes I go a while without really talking to anyone), so when I see a friend I also tend to overshare...hi friends! ;)


	2. Chapter 2

“Stay down!” Greg flipped a table onto its side and drug Mycroft behind it. “Everyone stay down, stay away from the window!” 

_Of course I’m not going to the window, you’re all but lying on top of me._ Mycroft thought rather hazily. _Oh...raised voice...whimpering from behind the counter...he was speaking to the others._

Pain. Sleep?

“No! Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.” 

“Gregory? Why?” Mycroft shook his head to clear it but groaned at the sharp headache the movement caused. 

“You’ve been shot in the arm and hit your head when you fell. Hold still.” 

Mycroft started to nod when another shot rang out, this one penetrating the table they were hiding from, missing Greg’s head by only a couple of inches. Another seconds later went wide, the bullet taking out the transom window over the door. The waiter threw his hands over his head to shield himself from the spray of glass--no one had thought to make the glass, likely antique, in _that_ shatter-proof. 

“We’ve got to move.” Greg grabbed Mycroft under the arms as he raised his voice again. “Everyone stay against the walls or on the floor. Make your way back to the kitchen.” 

The man behind the register nodded, breathing hard, from where he was clinging to the wall and began to scoot along it, dropping to his knees for the rest of the trip once he reached a counter blocking his way. The busboy had just come out of the back when the shots started, and had dropped his tray and darted out after the first shot, but now opened the door to let them all in. The lady by the door obeyed Greg without question, crawling quickly without looking back. 

The waiter started to drop to his knees from where he was crouched against the stairs that led to the upstairs dining room, but Mycroft happened to glance up and catch his eye. Panic. 

“Hey…” Mycroft tried to call out to him, but the man stood and ran in a direct line for the kitchen door. 

More shots. A scream of pain as the waiter fell with the first one. A surreal moment of sunflower petals drifting through the air when the second hit a large vase. 

“Fuck! Stay down!” Greg shouted, a bit too late for the waiter. Before Mycroft could think further, he was being drug backwards by his armpits. 

“Gregory, I…” 

“Shut up. Stay still.” 

Mycroft shut his mouth, and with seconds found himself being propelled through the door. Greg propped him, sitting up, against the wall. 

“Don’t move,” Greg barked at him. “Get some towels,” he barked at the frightened women who had been doing the washing up before the commotion started. He turned back towards the door to the dining room. 

_He’s going after the waiter...wait, Greg, no…_ “Gregory, don’t…” Mycroft’s half form thought did not make it out before Greg was gone. 

He held his breath, waiting for shots. Silence...ten seconds...silence...Gregory should be able to pull the other man in within thirty-four seconds….twenty seconds...silence...thirtySHOTS. Three more shots, quick and close... _Oh, god, Gregory, please…_

The door flew open and Greg heaved the moaning man in. 

“Gregory! Are you…” 

“M’fine, didn’t get hit. I think the shooter’s just mad now.” Greg reassured Mycroft, and then started giving orders. “You! Call the police! You! Turn him over!” 

_Usually I’m the one handling the crisis,_ Mycroft thought. _But my head hurts, and I’m glad he’s taking charge. I trust him. Think...shooter, aim, angle, not automatic, high calibre round to penetrate the table…_

“You’re going to be okay; I know it hurts. Just hang on, alright, buddy?” Greg tried to calm the panicking waiter. He had taken the shot in his arse, so likely not fatal but still extremely painful. “Bring a towel over here; keep pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding,” he instructed the proprietor. 

Mycroft felt like his usual lightning-fast deductions were playing in slow motion. _...downward trajectory...sniper. Planned hit. Motive?_

“Did you reach the police? Here, give me the phone…” the woman nearly threw the phone at him in her haste to comply. “Yes? This is DI Lestrade. Shots fired, sniper, Great Russell Street. Two injured, shooter still at large. Sheltering in kitchen, no windows. Requesting SFC…” 

_No reason to eliminate the shop itself or its employees…_ Mycroft, of course, knew the history of the Tea and Tattle; the same family had operated the establishment and the adjoined bookstore for three generations and had no ties that would warrant such an attack. _Lady with purse._ He turned his head to observe her. _Office job. Grown children. Came to find a rare book as a gift. Unlikely target._

“Here, give me another towel...Mycroft. Look at me.” Mycroft dutifully looked up. _His eyes are so warm, like hot chocolate...I really must have hit my head too hard if I’m making food similes._

“I’m going to wrap this around your arm. The wound isn’t deep, but it’s bleeding pretty heavily.” As soon as Mycroft nodded, he wrapped the towel tightly, muttering as Mycroft winced at the pressure. “M’sorry, I know it must hurt, Christ…” 

_Gregory: possible retribution for a past case? Any recent deaths in custody? An attempt to deter an ongoing case from being solved by eliminating the lead detective?_ Mycroft reviewed Greg’s recent cases and their outcomes as Greg looked into his eyes, trying to judge the severity of his concussion by his pupil size. 

“How’s the dizziness? Getting any better?” Mycroft nodded just to show he could do so without wincing again. 

“Getting better. Headache still, but manageable.” 

“Good, good. Probably going to have one for a while.” 

_No recent or ongoing cases that would justify such an attack, or at least none in which the aggrieved party would be able to obtain the services of a sniper. No new information about past cases._ Mycroft’s habit of keeping rather close tabs on his friends and family was coming in handy, although he was sure Greg would think it a bit creepy if he mentioned just how much of Greg’s life was stored in his mental archival system. 

“Is everyone else okay? No other injuries? Were you hit with any of the flying glass?” 

_That leaves me. Certainly, I have enemies, and the upcoming summit could set the course of diplomacy for decades. Much of my work is such that my death would halt or slow several key decisions. I’m the most likely person present to have attracted a sniper, or, more likely, someone with the resources to hire such a sniper (should have paid more; missed their shot). The bullet hit my arm as I was turning; it would have been a direct hit if I had not been in motion. Gregory was three feet away; a miss by a wide margin, too wide for a trained sniper, had he been the target. I am the target._

Greg lifted the towel to check the bleeding on Mycroft’s arm, and wrapped it securely again once he saw that it was still oozing. 

_Which of my enemies would be willing and able to use these tactics? If the goal was simply to remove me, it would be more practical to poison me in such a way that my death would like like a heart attack or a stroke. Risking a violent death that would be thoroughly investigated…._

_Cartwright. He is ambitious and craves power, which would be simpler for him to obtain without my presence, and the fear and paranoia among my colleagues in the wake of my violent death would create just the atmosphere that he could exploit for his extreme ideas..._

“Gregory?” 

“Yes, l...Myc?” 

“I am the target of the attempt.” 

“Yeah...that’s what I was thinking, too.” 

More shots rang out, this time closer and not from a sniper. The sound of the door being kicked was clear; it wouldn’t hold them out long.

“I believe I know who is responsible. If so, he and those he has hired have no reason to hurt these people.”

Greg just nodded and jumped back into action. “All of you, in the freezer, now; barricade the door and don’t let anyone but the police in.” 

“Gregory...we must…” 

“Yeah. Can you stand? Come on.” Greg hauled him up and steadied him. “We need to move.” 

“I can walk.” Mycroft felt a wave of dizziness as he began to move, but Greg’s arm was there, slung around his waist to guide him. “They’ll be watching the back entrance, though, if they have any sense at all.”

“This way!” The frightened proprietor had been following the conversation. “There’s a hallway here that runs behind the bookstore and through the storage rooms; there’s a door used for shipments in the furthest storage room. Maybe they won’t be looking down there?” 

“Thanks,” Greg replied tersely, and propelled Mycroft forward into the dim corridor. As promised they came to a way out further down. 

Mycroft scanned the small alley as soon as Greg opened the door. No sight lines for a sniper, deserted, no hiding places…

“Yes.” 

“Alright, here we go, then.” 

They stepped out into the alley. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Fuck, wait.” 

Mycroft froze. 

“Here, put my coat on, cover the blood or anyone we meet is going to remember us.” 

Mycroft nodded and accepted it, biting his lip to keep from cursing at the burn as he bent his arm to slide it in. 

_Thank god for Gregory’s cool head in crisis._

They edged down the alley quickly but cautiously, pausing to survey the scene again once they reached the street. The normal bustle of a weekday evening had turned tense and frantic with the nearby gunshots. Shop employees dithered in doorways with phones to their ears; the police were likely fielding dozens of calls. Shoppers had ducked into the opening to alleys, seeking shelter, or were rushing away from the gunfire now that there had been a pause in new shots. A few of the bravest (or most foolhardy) were edging towards the corner to get a glimpse at what was happening. A herd of American tourists who had just come out of the restaurant they’d retired to after leaving the British Museum were squawking and dithering. Police sirens could already be heard in the distance, coming closer, maybe a block out of sight now. 

“Police?” 

“No; Cartwright has the resources and the lack of scruples to pay off officers. I can’t trust anyone just now.” 

Greg just nodded, thankfully experienced enough in the ways of the world to not take offence at the notion that officers could be bribed. “Who do you trust?”

“You. Anthea. A selected few of my people, although maybe fewer of them than I thought. Sherlock.” 

“Right.” Greg steered him out into the street with a firm grip on his uninjured arm. “Keep your head down.” 

Mycroft understood immediately and lost his usual impeccable posture, trying to minimize his height and imposing presence with a bit of a stoop. They were edging up to the Americans in an attempt to be lost in the crowd when Mycroft spotted a face he recognized guarding the archway on Willoughby Street, their only escape in that direction.

“Stop. One of his men is watching for us.” Greg followed his gaze to see the burly man with a poorly concealed weapon. 

Fortunately, someone in the crowd of Americans spotted the gun at nearly the same moment that the guard spotted them and pulled it out. 

“He has a gun! Run!” Chaos ensued as the crowd stumbled over themselves to put distance between themselves and the man now stalking forward with the gun aimed in their general direction. 

“This way!” 

“Tyler!” 

“Gun!” 

“Call the police!” 

Amidst the screams, Greg drug Mycroft into the middle of the near stampede and they ran, heads ducked to try to give as little possible target as possible. The crowd spilt out on Great Russell Street, which put them back into range of the sniper. _But surely, the sniper will have moved by now--the police will be here any moment._ Sirens from several directions confirmed that estimation. 

As the crowd spread out in the larger street, they found themselves pushed up against the gate to the quiet street running alongside the British Museum. 

“This way,” Mycroft nodded to indicate the direction, and Greg hopped the low gate without questioning and nearly pulled Mycroft over it after him. Hugging the wall, they ran until they came to a small side entrance with key card access. Greg kept watch, eyes moving wildly in every direction as he panted and tried to keep him shielded with his body and Mycroft quickly unbutton his waistcoat, hissing at the movement of his arm, to get his real identification from the small pocket sewn inside; the version in the wallet that had been left behind in the coat he’d dropped in the chaos was enough for daily use but generic enough to not give away too much about him if his wallet was lost. 

This version gave him access to any government building. Including, fortunately, the British Museum. 

“We’ve been spotted!” Greg hissed and pressed him back until he struggled to get the card into the slot, flattened against the door as he was. Within seconds, the door beeped, not a moment too soon as a bullet ricocheted off the door lintel. “Fuck!” 

The nearly fell inside, and Greg slammed the door behind them. “That thing locks back automatically, right?” 

“It does. Gregory, are you…?” 

“M’fine, fine…” An angry assassin kicked at the door unsuccessfully. “Let’s move on just in case that door’s not bulletproof.” 

They made their way around the corner, down another corridor, and another corner, with Mycroft moving slower and slower as the adrenaline ebbed. It had kept him moving and thinking during their escape, and his focus had blocked some of the pain, but now that it was quiet and the danger was no longer immediate, the pounding in his head made itself known again. He stumbled against the wall. 

“Christ, m’sorry, here.” Greg caught him around the waist and gently lowered him to the floor, settling him where he could lean back against the wall. He lowered his head onto his bent knees and just breathed for a moment. 

“Here, give me your phone.” Mycroft slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled it out without question, tapping the fingerprint scanner to unlock it as he did. “Is there a speed dial for Anthea?” Mycroft mumbled out instructions without opening his eyes. 

Greg hit the call button and then the speaker button. 

“Sir?” 

“Anthea, this is DI Lestrade. There was an assassination attempt on Mycroft. He is injured but alive. You are on speaker phone.” 

There was an intake of breath on the other end; the only sign of surprise she would let show. “Location?” 

“Sniper fire into Tea and Tattle on Great Russell Street; followed by armed men in the street after. We made it into the British Museum, where we seem to be secure at the moment.” Greg kept his explanation concise and to the point. 

“Anthea…” Mycroft made himself speak up. 

“Sir! Your condition?” 

Greg answered for him. “He’s got a bad concussion and bullet wound to the arm; appears to be a flesh wound and the bleeding has slowed.” 

“Cartwright,” Mycroft broke back in, choking back a bit of nausea as the concussion made itself known. “Recognized his man. Sloppy attempt, but obviously planned. Don’t trust…” 

“Understood, sir. Initiating the appropriate protocols. Limited information to agents in case any have been compromised.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Stay in the museum for now; the security already in place should make any attempts at infiltration difficult. I will inform the security guards; they will be instructed not to approach you unless they receive further instructions.” 

“We will.” 

“I’ll call back as soon as I have an update.” 

“Use caution; he is aware of your position and may try to prevent you giving me aid.” 

“Yes, sir. I’ll check in in fifteen minutes unless there are urgent developments.” 

“Understood.” 

 

Anthea disconnected, off to organize the takedown of Cartwright and his men. 

Mycroft rested his head back on his knees and fought against nausea again until he felt a hand gently running through his hair as Greg settled on his knees next to him. 

“You’ve got quite a knot coming up,” Greg said as he gently checked the injury. “Can you open your eyes again for me?” 

Mycroft raised his head slowly and Greg took his jaw gently in his hand, tilting his head so that he could look into his eyes. 

“Your pupils are quite dilated for this light, but not too different in size. Hopefully, the concussion won’t be too severe.” 

_Or it could be the fact that an extremely attractive man is so close I can feel his breath and is now gently rubbing my jaw with his thumb that is affecting my pupil dilation._

“Do you feel sick at all?” 

“A bit.” 

“There’s a bathroom down the corridor there; I can help you there if you think…?” 

“No, I think...I think if I just sit quietly for a moment it’ll settle.” 

Greg nodded. “Alright, then. Stay here; I’m going to have a quick look about. I won’t go out of hearing range.” 

Mycroft mumbled his reply as he settled back against the wall and closed his eyes. 


	4. Chapter 4

He woke from a light doze when his phone buzzed with Anthea’s fifteen-minute check-in. Greg had returned and was sitting next to him against the wall on his good side, close enough that their shoulders rubbed.

“Sir.” 

“Yes, update?” 

“I have started surveillance on Cartwright. He is nervous and agitated that his plan was not completed, but he’s not trying to flee the country yet. He’s done a fairly good job of obfuscating the links between himself and the team that he hired to attack you, so he likely thinks he will not be implicated.” 

“Well, I have always maintained that were it not for his father he would never have made it to the position he currently occupies on the strength of his own intelligence.” 

“Quite true,” her smirk could be heard through the phone. “However, with the large police presence, ambulances, and number of witnesses, the scene outside of the museum is still quite chaotic and likely to remain so for some time. Members of his team may well still be in the area, watching the exits. As I’m still running through all of his contacts to ascertain who may be working for him, I am not yet prepared to send in a large number of agents, so I think it best that you remain there until this is sorted, unless your condition worsens to the point that receiving medical treatment would be worth the risk.”

“I agree; we will remain.” 

“I only have basic first aid training,” Greg tossed in, “but enough to know the basics of caring for a concussion. I’ll call immediately if anything worries me.” 

“I’m glad you are with him, Detective Inspector. Also, while you should avoid using your phone in case a trace is attempted, Mr Holmes’s phone is secure. I have attempted to reach Sherlock, but, well.”

“No need to explain there.” 

“If you called Dr Watson for medical advice, it might have the added benefit of him encouraging Sherlock to return my call.” 

Greg laughed. “Perfect, two birds with one stone. Will do.” 

“Thank you. Next update in fifteen minutes.” 

Greg and Mycroft sat quietly for just a moment before Greg pushed himself back up to standing with a bit of an exaggerated grimace, causing Mycroft to give him a small fond smile. 

“Oi, none of that. M’old.” He emphasized his claim of being old by childishly sticking out his tongue. “Besides, you’re next. I found a break room around the corner; let’s get you to an actual chair.” 

*****

Soon Mycroft found himself sitting at a small table, wincing a bit at the bright lights of the break room.

“Alright, I’m going to call John, and then we’ll see if there’s any tea to be had in here.” 

“Here’s my phone. I would prefer for you to make the call; my head cannot take it if my brother gets involved.” 

Greg just smiled and dialled the phone. 

“Mycroft. To what do I owe the...” 

“John? It's Greg.” 

“Oh, hey, Greg, sorry, I thought it came up as Mycroft's number... Case?”

“Sort of, and I am on Mycroft's phone. First of all, tell Sherlock, if he’s around, to stop ignoring Anthea’s calls. There’s been an assassination attempt on Mycroft.” 

“Christ, is he alright? Sherlock! Get out here!” 

“Concussion and flesh wound from a bullet in the arm, which is why I…” Greg cut off as John was distracted by Sherlock’s appearance in the background.

“John?” 

“Somebody’s trying to kill Mycroft. Anthea’s been calling you; go return her call, you berk.” 

Sherlock hummed in interest and moved out of range for Greg to hear him. 

“Where is he now? Should we come…? 

“I’m with him; we had met for tea and were just leaving when there was sniper fire. Fortunately, the sniper just got Mycroft in the arm, but he hit his head pretty hard when he fell. We got away and we’re actually holed up in the British Museum, of all places. It was convenient and has good locks on the doors.” 

“You and Mycroft have tea together? Nevermind, not important.” 

“We’re okay here; I just wanted to talk to you about his injuries, just to make sure I don’t miss something. Other than that; we’re fine here; you two would be of more use helping Anthea round up the team of trigger-happy goons Mycroft’s political buddy hired. She thinks there still might be some of them watching the exits, so we’re going to stay put for a while so long as he’s doing okay.” 

“Alright then, tell me about his arm first.” 

***** 

Greg was rummaging through the cabinets. They’d just hung up from another check in with Anthea after going over Mycroft’s injuries with John and using the break room first aid kit to wrap his arm better with gauze. 

“PG Tips alright with you? I know it’s not your usual fancy stuff.” 

“Under the circumstances, PG Tips sounds lovely.” 

They drank tea, talked, and waited for two more of Anthea’s check-ins before the third came in after only seven minutes. 

She didn’t wait for any pleasantries. 

“Cartwright's team is attempting to gain entrance to the museum. I doubt they will be successful, but you should move upstairs into the galleries. There are fire doors connecting the public and private areas that I can remotely lock to add another layer of protection and drastically reduce the possible entrance points, and there is full coverage by security cameras that will allow me to warn you if anyone is approaching you.” 

“Understood. Moving.” And she was gone. 

Mycroft got to his feet, still a bit wobbly. 

“Come on. At least up there the scenery will be better. Haven’t you ever wanted to look at the Rosetta Stone without any crowds?” 

*****

Greg slipped his arm around Mycroft’s waist as they moved down the corridor and found the stairs, making sure he was supported if he became dizzy from the movement. 

_He has a care-taking nature; would he stay so close to anyone who needed his help? To him, this is likely the most efficient way to guide me...I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. This is a serious situation, not the time to indulge in fantasies._

And yet...Mycroft couldn’t quite bring himself to insist he could manage on his own or to pretend that he didn’t feel safer, despite the assassins, with Greg’s arm around him than he had in years. 


	5. Chapter 5

Time passed; Anthea’s check-ins became every half-hour rather than every fifteen minutes, as she (and presumably Sherlock, John, and what agents she felt could be trusted in such a situation) were busy unearthing Cartwright’s plans and capturing his mercenaries. 

Mycroft was sleepy but afraid to sleep with the concussion until he’d had medical attention and disinclined to miss any bit of new news, even though Greg said he was perfectly willing to stay awake to rouse him periodically. Anyhow, despite his aching head and burning arm and the danger to his own life, part of him was rather enjoying this--he had Greg’s undivided attention and was the recipient of the full blast of his caring nature. 

How many years had it been since anyone who was not his mother had touched him so freely and carefully? Even though the touches weren’t sexual, they were….comfortable, warm, _fond_. 

He was rather embarrassed to admit that he had stumbled and swayed a few more times than really necessary, just so that Greg would put his arm around him again to steady him. 

“Well, if you want to stay awake, then we might as well enjoy having the museum to ourselves.” Greg was trying to make the best of the situation instead of bemoaning being stuck with Mycroft for goodness knows how long, and Mycroft was grateful for it. 

“Of course. We have a unique opportunity to examine the collection at our leisure. What do you wish to see first?” 

“Let’s just wander and see what we come to first...look at this.” Greg guided Mycroft slowly into the next room and read the sign. “The Nereid Monument.” 

Mycroft hummed and looked dutifully. He’d always loved the museum; many happy hours had been spent exploring and discovering items of interest when he was a child. While it had been years since he’d had the opportunity to truly enjoy the vast collection, he remained on the email list and kept up with the announcements about new requisitions. 

“I like how they’ve presented the temple; it’s easy to imagine what it must have looked like whole.” 

“It’s believed to have been a tomb, actually, for Arbinas, the dynastic ruler of Lycia in the fourth century BC, originally located in the city of Xanthos. The city has long since been abandoned now, but archaeologists have discovered extensive ruins.” 

“Where was Xanthos? I’m assuming somewhere with Greek influence; the statues remind me of the ones on that temple, can’t think of the name, not the Parthenon, the other one, on the Acropolis in Athens.” 

“Yes, Gregory--it was designed in the form of a Greek temple. The female figures positioned between the columns appear to be sea-nymphs; various sea creatures are carved at the feet of several--do you see the seabird there?” Mycroft was rather impressed that Greg recognized and correctly classified the style; not that it was at all difficult to differentiate between the various classical styles, but most people’s grasp of art history was deplorable. “Xanthos was located in what is now the Mugla Province of Turkey. The ruins were discovered in the 1840s by a British traveller, Charles Fellows...” 

Greg was an attentive listener, and asked thoughtful questions; Mycroft wasn’t sure if it was out of genuine interest or more of an effort to keep Mycroft’s mind awake and occupied, but either way he decided to indulge himself and enjoy this rare moment of both physical contact with Gregory and some fascinating bits of history. 

*****

“That’s amazing.” Greg grinned once Mycroft’s words petered out. “I knew you were interested in history, but it always still surprises me how much information you have stored in there. What’s the story with this one?” 

Mycroft looked up as he was gently guided into a new room. His was able to push the pain in his head and arm into the background as he focused on recalling the details of the items in the new room. “Oh, these are quite fascinating. These are orthostats from the palace in Ninevah, in the Assyrian empire. The scene depicted is of King Ashurbanipal, the last great Assyrian king, participating in a lion hunt; a manufactured hunt, likely; it was common in that day for the hunt to be conducted in an arena with captured animals. Notice the detail of the lions, particularly that one…” 

“Wow, yeah...the detail of the mane is incredible. What time period are these from? 

“Approximately 645-635 BC. Originally they would have been brightly painted…” 

As Mycroft rambled on, Greg’s arm around his waist tightened a bit, encouraging him to lean against him for support as they stood. 

While most of his brain was occupied with recalling any bits that might particularly interest Greg, part of Mycroft’s brain was cataloguing the new sensations caused by their intimate proximity. 

_I should move away; I may require some assistance to move quickly, but I am quite capable of standing unaided. But...the strength of his arms, and the scent of his hair, and the concern in his eyes…_

Mycroft stayed, and allowed himself to lean, just a bit. 

*****

“Must we go upstairs? Surely there’s enough to occupy us here on this level,” Greg whinged good-naturedly. 

“Yes, it is imperative. A visit to the museum would not be complete without showing you my favourite item.” 

“Well, if it’s your favourite, I suppose we must,” Greg smiled, rather sleepily, and took Mycroft’s arm again to steady him as they stepped into the lift. “I’m surprised you can narrow it down to one favourite.” 

“You’ll see why…this way.” Mycroft led him around the corner and into the room labelled as number forty. “This...the Lewis chessmen.” 

“Oh, wow. Look at their expressions; I’ve never seen chess pieces with so much personality.” 

“Quite,” Mycroft smiled. “They make up one of the few complete medieval chess sets in existence; there are ninety-three pieces in all: seventy-eight chess pieces, fourteen tablemen, and one belt buckle that was found with the set. Part of the set is housed here, while the rest are on display at the National Museum of Scotland. They are mostly carved from walrus ivory, although whale teeth were used for some portions.” 

“Walrus ivory? I would never have thought of that. That’s incredible. Oh, look at this queen!” 

“Yes, her expression is quite apt. Most scholars believe the set to have been carved in Trondheim, in Norway, in the 1100s, which makes the walrus ivory a much more obvious choice.” 

*****

And so a few hours of the night passed, alternating between Mycroft’s enthusiastic descriptions of his favourite displays and rest breaks on the more comfortable of the available benches while speaking with Anthea. Greg hovered close, putting his arm around Mycroft’s waist again anytime they paused to look at an item and gently encouraging him to rest against him. 

Sometime after three, they finally settled on a padded bench that Greg pushed up against a wall. Mycroft would rather have continued their wanderings; he’d rather occupy his mind than focus on the pain of his body, but Greg had finally complained that his feet were aching with all the shuffling around after a full day of work. He was right, of course; Mycroft’s feet hurt, too, when he allowed himself to feel them. It wouldn’t hurt to sit for just a bit, and if his condition had not worsened by now, it was doubtful that the concussion would give further cause for worry. 

“Here; I’ll set the alarm on your phone, just in case we doze off. Doubt we'll need it; if we do, Anthea will probably call and wake us up soon enough. How do you still have battery still? Mine died hours ago.” 

Mycroft hummed noncommittally to this inquiry; Greg assumed that incredible battery life for your mobile devices must just be one of the perks of being the British Government. _Probably has somebody like Q from James Bond around, handing out secret technologies not available to us plebeians._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank Wikipedia for making this chapter possible. ;)
> 
> To Ngaijuuyan: I'm still editing chapter six. I should have it posted before your birthday ends in my time zone, but unfortunately, I don't think I'm going to make it before the end of your birthday in your time zone. :( I wanted to go ahead and post as much as possible now, though, so you didn't think I'd forgotten you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: if you read this chapter within about half an hour after I first posted it, I accidentally left off the whole ending part. It's added now!

Mycroft generally woke quickly and neatly; his forays into legwork when he was younger had trained him to be immediately alert even after minimal rest. But now he felt as if a fog was slowly lifting, and he was becoming aware of each of his senses one at a time. His front was warm, and part of his back, but his legs were rather chilled. He smelled traces of laundry detergent, sweat, old books, dust, and just a hint of coffee. He heard the distant hum of a central heating system and soft, even breaths. 

Normally, anything less than complete clarity was rather terrifying, but even though the information coming in through his senses was jumbled, he felt safe in a way he hadn’t in a long time. 

The pillow under his cheek was rather hard, but warm, and...moving? Moving with the rhythm of breathing, of lungs expanding and contracting. 

_Gregory. The museum. Gunfire._

Before he could open his eyes, the body he was cradled against shifted, carefully stretching stiff muscles while trying not to wake him. The arm around his back tightened slightly, and he felt a soft kiss being pressed against his temple.

A kiss.

Gregory. Kissed him.

_It could just be an unconscious reaction to waking with someone next to him; he was married for many years, after all. Just his tactile nature, even while asleep…_

_But oh, if he meant it…_

Mycroft tried to stay as still as possible and slowed his breathing to mimic still being asleep until he felt Greg relax back into sleep. If it was just an automatic reaction, well, maybe...maybe he’d do it again. Nothing happened for a long moment. Mycroft rubbed his cheek slightly on Greg’s shoulder; he might as well take what little pleasures he could while he could still blame it on being asleep if Greg felt awkward once he woke up and realized he’d been sleeping with Mycroft in his arms. 

Would it be awkward? Maybe not--for Mycroft, every touch was specifically decided upon and had a purpose and a meaning. He wasn’t the sort of person that people touched accidentally. But Greg? He grew up as the third of four siblings in an ordinary family; he had told stories of bear hugging his brothers, being piled on a sofa together with mates, supporting a drunk friend down the street...it was possible that, to him, this kind of touching, which was so earth-shattering to Mycroft, would just be something he’d laugh off. ‘Ha ha, you fell asleep on me, mate! Do you think I look like a pillow?’

But it was rare anyone touched Mycroft without some level of awkwardness. 

Mycroft continued feigning sleep, his thoughts swirling over Gregory’s possible reactions and how best to respond to each possibility to minimize embarrassment. Minutes passed in stillness as he was lulled by the even breathing as Greg continued to doze. 

_Should I remove myself? I’ve been assuming that he will assume my lack of respect for his personal boundaries was done while asleep; if he realizes that I’ve been awake for some minutes and continued to recline on him and has only platonic feelings for me, he may be uncomfortable and feel the need to limit time spent in my proximity in the future…_

_But in the process of extricating myself, I may wake him, and…_

_But...but...if he wakes up and realizes he likes waking up holding me..._ his mental voice added in a whisper. 

Greg shifted again, jostling Mycroft and then squeezing the arm around him a bit tighter to be sure he wasn’t knocked away from the shoulder he was leaning on. Mycroft barely dared to breathe as Greg’s face ended up close enough to his forehead to feel his warm breaths. Just a half inch more for another press of lips to skin...just a bit more...please… 

Nothing. _I MUST move, now. I’m being ridiculous, hoping for accidental affection from an unconscious man. I’ll go find the facilities to splash some water on my face, and…_

Mycroft lifted his head decisively, just as Greg finally _did_ move to give another little kiss. It landed right on the tip of Mycroft’s nose. He froze as Greg’s eyes blinked open, looking right into his. 

_Say good morning? Ignore everything? Assure him he dreamed that? Kiss HIS nose in return? Fake a seizure? Pretend I opened my eyes in my sleep, and later claim I remember nothing? For god’s sake, I am an experienced diplomat, I must…_

“Did I just…?” Greg asked sleepily, his mouth still hovering barely two inches from the nose he was quite sure he’d just kissed. 

“You did.” _Idiot! That was not the optimal response that...oh._

Greg was giving him a little smile. 

“Is...is that okay?” 

_OKAY? Is that okay? He...he...does he...pleasedoitagainornorun…_ Mycroft was, thanks to the lingering effects of his concussion, the early hour with little sleep, and the unusual emotional quandary he found himself in, for once in his life not paying any attention to his facial expressions. Greg watched as he panicked and his grin got bigger and bigger until Mycroft finally decided upon the appropriate answer.

“...Yes?” 

“You don’t sound very certain about that. Maybe I should do it again, now that we’re both fully awake so that you can evaluate your response properly.” Greg was still smiling, and slid his arm down to Mycroft’s waist to give him a little squeeze. 

“That would be acceptable.” Mycroft didn’t dare breathe; his inner monologue was screaming out various pros and cons and contingencies, but he wasn’t listening any more. Gregory was lowering his head, closer, closer…

The brush of lips on the tip of his nose again. Greg lips lifted, but only by millimetres, before pressing a slightly longer kiss against it. 

_He’s kissing my nose! My nose? Not my best feature, I’m afraid; how could he be attracted to...oh, should I...will he…_ Mycroft’s brain was stuttering in a way it hadn’t done in fourteen years, three months, and five days. 

Greg eased back a bit and took a deep breath before beginning to speak.

“Mycroft, I...christ. I really enjoy the time we spend together. I…you are, I mean... I’ve tried to hide it because I didn’t think you’d be interested, but, well, I am attracted to you. Now, if you don’t want that, this, I don’t have to--it won’t change anything. I won’t bother you with it, and we can still meet for coffee and…” Greg swallowed and tried to read Mycroft’s face. 

Mycroft slowly brought the arm that was not pinned against Greg already up and rested his hand on the shoulder he wasn’t already pressed against. 

Emboldened by the gesture, Greg continued. “But last night...so close, Mycroft. You could have been gone, I could have been gone, and I’d never know...I could have lost you, without ever taking the chance. I know, you’re probably thinking this is all an emotional response to a traumatic situation, but I’ve felt this way for quite a while now. I’d like to try being with you, in whatever way you’d like, if you do want...but if you don’t, it’s okay, I….” He huffed as he tried to find his next words. 

The voice in Mycroft’s head had shut up entirely as Greg made his speech, but now various exclamations were going off like fireworks. _Attracted! Me! Could have lost…! He kissed me! Want? Want! Think! Analyze! Evaluate the ramifications! Kiss. KISS._

Mycroft hand tightened its grip on Greg’s shoulder. 

“Gregory...please.” Greg looked hopeful. “Kiss me again.” 

“I…” Greg started to say something further, but then gave a little nod and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s nose yet again. 

Mycroft let out a little noise that was _definitely not_ a giggle. “My nose?” 

“I like your nose. No, don’t argue, I don’t care what Sherlock said about it.” 

Another press of lips to his nose, and then to his cheek, to his temple, at the corner of his eye. Mycroft’s body, rigid with his earlier panic, began to relax and he let himself slump a bit into the embrace. He stroked his left hand down Greg’s arm, appreciating the feel of his bicep through his shirt. 

“I admit that I, too, have had to hide my attraction. Gregory, I do...I want...please…” 

There. Lips on lips, moving slowly. _He’s kissing me, Gregory Lestrade, the silver fox, honest, wonderful, MINE._

Greg made a bit of a whining noise, and Mycroft found himself being pulled tight, nearly into Greg’s lap, and _oh. God. Gregory is quite adept at this._

The kisses turned frantic, desperate, _perfect_. Mycroft let his lips part just enough to give a hint that Greg eagerly took, swiping his tongue between the parted lips until he could slip in and tangle their tongues. 

Mycroft was clutching at Greg’s shoulders and making little moaning noises as heat swooped through his belly, and Greg’s hands were roaming up and down Mycroft’s back as they explored each other’s mouths. 

No thoughts, other than the pleasure of lips and tongues and arms and _oh._ Mycroft allowed himself to give in to sentiment and _just stop thinking and feel_. He wasn’t thinking about the assassination attempt, or the stiffness from shuffling around all night and then sleeping half sitting up, or the fact that he hadn’t cleaned his teeth for going on twenty-four hours, or the embarrassing downfall Cartwright would soon have, or that it had been quite some time, well over the usual half hour, since there had been any update from Anthea. 

The heat building, Mycroft moved to straddle Greg’s lap, but Greg caught him and gently pressed him back. 

“Oh, yes, I want that,” he said, voice low and raspy. Mycroft gave another little whine at being denied. “But not here. I know there’s a camera on us, and you’ll sulk for weeks if you get a memo from Anthea critiquing your snogging technique.” 

Mycroft snorted. 

“But Gregory…,” he whined again, with a playful smile (and how many years had it been since anyone had seen that on Mycroft Holmes’s face? It took Greg’s breath away). He settled back down, sitting beside Greg, but still pressed close, and still with Greg’s arm around his waist. _Where it belonged._

Greg swooped in for one more quick kiss.

“You are correct. I am grateful that you--and rather embarrassed that I forgot myself so far--maintained your sense. This is not the ideal setting for us to explore our...attachment. But…” Mycroft leaned in and whispered in Greg’s ear, “when this situation is resolved and we find ourselves in a private location, I want to feel your skin against mine. I want to explore _every inch_ of you with my fingers, with my tongue. Are your nipples sensitive? I'd like to…” 

He continued until Greg shuddered. “Oh, fuck me up.” 

“Yes, please.” 

Neither could keep a straight face. They collapsed into laughter, clutching at each other as they gasped with delirium and lust and exhaustion and _happiness._

A faint sound in the adjoining room brought them abruptly to their senses. 

“Did you…?” 

“Yes,” the other hissed.

Another noise, closer. 

Mycroft was being hunted by trained killers, they had let their guard down and had not placed themselves in a strategic position (doors? Too far, led into a room with no other exit, would have to pass the doorway from whence came the noise to access) and Anthea had ceased communication. Had she been compromised? Had the museum security been breached? 

Clear footsteps, coming into the room. Acting on instinct, Greg shoved Mycroft back and half stood, trying to shield his love’s body with his own while also being ready to fight. 

“At ease, I am armed only with coffee.” 

Anthea stepped through the doorway, holding up two large paper cups (she was most certainly armed with much more than coffee, but where she kept her weapons in her usual professional attire was a mystery). 

Greg relaxed, and sat back; Mycroft barely scooted his leg quickly enough to avoid being sat on (not that he’d exactly have minded, but, well, PA present and all). 

“Good morning Mr Holmes, Detective Inspector,” she greeted them briskly as Sherlock, John, and three armed MI5 agents in full tactical gear followed her in. “I do apologize for the recent lack of updates, but I did not wish to release you from your captivity at an inopportune moment.” 

_Oh, dear Lord, she’s smirking,_ Mycroft realized. _Cameras. She will be insufferable with her little knowing looks for months._

“Some prison,” John muttered. “The British Museum? Of course you two would manage to hide out in the bloody British Museum, with toilets and water and nice benches. Last time somebody was trying to kill _us_ , I was crammed into a dusty storage closet full of useful items like copier toner and sellotape for three hours with this one,” he jerked a thumb at Sherlock, “who muttered about wifi and printers and the bloody water flow in the building’s pipes, _while I needed to piss_.” 

“Ah, John, I thought you liked storage closets. I saw you coming out of that one outside the morgue last week, and you looked quite chuffed,” Greg retorted with a grin. John raised two fingers in his direction. 

Sherlock had been absorbed with something on his phone until this point, but finally glanced up. “And pray tell, what _were_ you doing, brother, that necessitated delaying your rescue? _She_ ,” he glared at Anthea, “forced us to sit in the cafe for fifteen minutes while she gave a lecture on the history of the museum, _boring_ , and smiled at her phone.” He adopted his usual indignant expression, and one of the armed agents gleefully tapped him on the arse with the butt of her assault rifle, earning her a withering glare as well. “Bloody minions,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Well, brother dear, I…” Mycroft started to speak, but at this point Sherlock actually _looked_ at the pair of them and, wrinkling his nose in disgust, cut him off. 

“No, stop, _do not_ tell me. Bleaching my brain was _not_ on my agenda for today.” 

“What?” John glanced at Sherlock and then back at just how close Mycroft and Greg were sitting. “Ohhh…,” he smirked. “Pint later, Greg. Now, Mycroft, let me see your arm…” 

*****

Much later in the day, after Cartwright had been thoroughly interrogated and humiliated, medical examinations had been completed, Sherlock and John had gone home, Anthea had managed everything, and showers and food had been had, Mycroft and Greg finally found themselves collapsing onto the sofa in Mycroft’s sitting room. 

Thoroughly exhausted, they just looked at each other for a moment, until Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand, rubbing the back gently with his thumb. 

“Hi.” 

Mycroft smiled. “Hello, Gregory.” 

They smiled rather dopily at each other for another long moment. 

“Gregory, I…”

“We should…” 

They both started to speak at once. Greg motioned for Mycroft to go first. 

“Gregory, I had little opportunity to give an appropriate response to you this morning before my insufferable PA joined us. I... _do_ want to pursue a relationship with you. You said in any way I want…” Mycroft paused to take a rather shaky breath. Sentiment seemed to make the most eloquent person stumble. “I want _you_. I want everything; I want to call you mine.” 

“Mycroft…” Greg lifted a hand to stroke his face gently. 

“First,” Mycroft continued, “let me treat you to an evening out, this weekend. You deserve to be courted in as much style as I can muster.” 

“A date, then? My perfect date?” 

“Yes, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, although a little taken aback by the phrasing. 

“Oh, don’t you remember what we were talking about right before it all went to hell?” Greg laughed. “Per my niece’s magazine of sage advice, the perfect date for me would be exploring a museum with my special someone.” 

Mycroft snorted. 

“And it was,” Greg finished with a grin. “Just a little unexpected gunfire to liven it up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! I'm so sorry, Yan, I promised I'd finish your birthday gift two days ago, but it took longer than I'd thought. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for your enthusiastic response to this little fic. I posted it without much editing, so let me know if you see any glaring mistakes I've made. 
> 
> I hope all of you reading this have a wonderful day!


End file.
